


Devour

by FinalSolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Blood and Gore, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinalSolution/pseuds/FinalSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had always been warned that he was living with a monster.  He didn't realize just how right everyone was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for challenge three of Let's Write Sherlock, inspired in a very literal way by Lady Gaga's "Monster." There are depictions of violence and cannibalism, so be warned.

I’d had warnings, all along. Sally had told me from the start. Mycroft – hell, even Mycroft had told me it was dangerous, in his typical, funny way. And I hadn’t listened to a damn word any of them had said. I never believed Sherlock Holmes was a madman – well, not the sort to take a pick axe to me while I was having a kip on the sofa, anyhow. I started to think just maybe Sherlock would be the death of me some day, but I didn’t ever think it would be like this.

 

It had started a few weeks ago. I’d noticed Sherlock acting more peculiar than usual – not that he was normal by any means, but there was a certain “Sherlock normal” that I had learned to grow used to in our months living together at Baker Street. I was used to the long silences; used to him carrying on conversations without me that I didn’t even know about until I walked into the flat two hours later from the chemist’s; used to the sounds of violin cries reaching my ears at two in the morning; used to seeing him go for days at a time with little sleep, or days without a proper meal (aside from sneaking biscuits and mince pies from Mrs. Hudson that I’m sure he thought I didn’t’ notice). So naturally, I was shocked to find him sitting perched at the edge of his chair with a rather large bowl of what smelled like curry when I came home one evening from the surgery.

“Jesus, Sherlock. Slow down, you’re going to choke. Take it you solved the Hemsworth case, then?” I knew he never ate on a case, something ridiculous about it slowing down his mental faculties.

“Close,” was his only reply between shoveling the spiced concoction into his mouth. He made quick work of his dish before setting it down and pulling his feet up onto the chair and folding in on himself, wrapping his hands around his knees - one of his common thinking poses I’d grown used to as well. I gave a slight shrug and ambled into the kitchen to make myself a cuppa, when Sherlock’s voice called out, “What have we got in the fridge?”

“The usual,” I retorted. “Thumbs, tongues, a couple of ears.” There was an impatient sigh from the sitting area, and I could practically _hear_ the roll of his eyes.

“Food, John, what have we got to _eat_?”

I returned with my tea in one hand, and a bit of leftover risotto in the other, which Sherlock promptly snatched and devoured in record time. I watched him with an unhidden look of astonishment.

“Sorry,” came his answer to my unspoken question. “Famished.”

 ---------

When he began having an aversion to decomposing body parts, I began to worry. The bits and chunks normally stored in the fridge and microwave were systematically thrown out, and he didn’t seem quite so keen on trips to the morgue as he usually did.

“Have you taken the time to smell rotting flesh?” he said when I asked him about it one morning over the paper. “It’s absolutely vile and offensive.”

“So are you,” I quipped, “but I deal with it anyway because I have to.” I glanced up and saw what actually looked like a flash of dejection on his face, but it was gone in a flash.

 --------- 

Lestrade had called us down to St. Bart’s to take a look at a fresh stiff that had turned up. As strong as his newfound aversion to cold corpses was, Sherlock still couldn’t refuse an interesting murder, so we made our way to the hospital. Molly was, of course, the pathologist on shift that night. We exchanged quick greetings and then got to work, Molly leading us to our body of choice.

“It’s a bit…” she began, reaching her gloved fingers around the edge of the covering to pull it back from the body. She paused and glanced up at us. “You okay?”

I looked over to Sherlock, who had a look of revulsion on his face. “Fine,” he replied, tight-lipped. Molly gave a quick nod, and then slowly peeled the sheet from our corpse. I heard a hiss escape from between Sherlock’s teeth, and I felt my own stomach twist with a threat of emptying my dinner onto the tile floor.

“Jesus…”

Tobias Carlyle, age 37. Tall guy, seemed fit, at least from what I could gather from what remained of him. His body had been mangled, completely disfigured and shredded. A gaping hole existed where there should have been a stomach, giving us a clear and unwelcome view of bright pink, glistening intestines. There were deep gashes along his chest, angry and crimson. My eyes kept going up, and when I saw the state of his neck, my stomach did another lurch and I could feel the blood drain from my face. There was a large mass of his neck missing on the right side where his carotid artery and jugular should have been, the flesh ragged and torn, exposing meat and muscle. Like something had taken a proper bite out of him.

It looked like he had been mauled. I didn’t want to try to imagine by what.

The three of us were silent for what felt like hours before Sherlock licked his lips nervously and darted his eyes in my direction. “If you need a moment, John…”

I took the cue, grateful, and exited the room, making a direct dash towards the lavatory. Unfortunately my legs couldn’t carry me fast enough, so I had to settle for a blessedly close-by trash bin to get sick in. I liked to pride myself on having a titanium stomach, but even that scene had been too much to handle. I could already picture Sherlock’s smug grin when I would come back in; undoubtedly, he’d be able to smell the vomit and know what had happened, and I wouldn’t hear the end of it.

I took a moment to head to the lavatory anyway to wash off my face. It was in the hall here, on the way back to Sherlock and Molly, that I heard the scream. It was a high-pitched wail, followed by a loud banging crash. There was no one else in this building besides us, or should have been no one else. My heart dropped to my stomach. _Molly._ Instinct taking over, my feet kicked up into a sprint and I ran back to the holding room with the bodies. _Please, God, tell me she just slipped._ As though the universe had heard my prayer, I got a sickening answer in response just before I came into the room.

“Stop it! You madman, what –“ Another cry, this one tinged with a sob. Someone in pain. The door flung open with a slam, and I froze abruptly in my tracks.

Molly stood limply in the corner of the room, her eyes fixed toward me, wide and filled with absolute terror, her mouth open and slack. Upon seeing me, she tried to speak; her lips moved, but no discernible sound came out. I watched, mesmerized with horror, as a bubble of dark blood spurted out instead, staining her mouth and spilling onto her blouse.

Only then did my brain seem to register the tall, slender figure standing in front of her, blocking most of her body from view, encased in a billowing long black coat. His posture was rigid, his curly head bent forward, lingering next to Molly’s face.

“Oh, God. Don’t just stand there, Sherlock!” I began to move toward them, ready to help him move Molly to the floor and get assistance.

At the sound of my voice his head snapped up and swiveled around to look at me. Most of his face was concealed by the collar of the Belstaff at that angle. The harsh lighting in the mortuary always gave him a bit of a ghastly appearance and lent his eyes an odd color, but what I saw wasn’t a simple by-product of flourescent lighting. His eyes were wide, the irises a luminescent silvery white, like a couple of miniature moons set into his skull. Where the whites of his eyes should have been, there was instead a bright scarlet red, a sharp contrast to the irises and the rest of his pale face.

The next thing I heard was a slick, wet sound as Sherlock moved his left hand, which I thought had been holding Molly up, or together, or – I didn’t realize it had been doing both of those things, not because he was holding onto her, but because his fingers had been buried into her gut. As he stepped back, the sweet-faced pathologist slumped to the floor, and God help me, I could see what little life that had been left in Molly Hooper flicker out; she stared straight ahead at me with unseeing eyes. The abdomen area of her blouse was one large blotch of crimson, and the sticky mess began to pool around her on the floor, stark and violent against the pale tile.

“Quite rude of you to barge in in the middle of dinner,” Sherlock drawled in his usual way. He was facing me fully now, displaying the mess of blood covering the lower part of his face. He lifted his blood-soaked hand to his mouth and flicked his tongue out, tasting the liquid on his fingers as though it were a gourmet dessert. His gaze lingered for a moment before moving languidly back up to me. There was a gleam in those monstrous eyes that I didn’t like, and it sent a chill through me. He extended his hand out. “You should give it a try. She tastes as good as she smells – honeysuckle and vanilla.” His mouth twitched into a casual half-grin that any other time I would find endearing.

In the next instant, I was charging down the hall of the hospital and through the doors, out into the dark streets of London, blindly hailing down a cab. The only sound I could hear was the hammering of my heart in my chest, crashing through my ears like war drums.

 --------- 

Luckily, Mrs. Hudson was out when I arrived back at the flat. I hadn’t thought of luring Sherlock directly to her, so I was grateful for it. Molly’s dead eyes kept staring at me and I could not shake the image from my mind. I yanked open the drawer of the desk where I kept my Browning – I hadn’t thought to take it with me when we left, it wasn’t like I’d ever needed it in a fucking mortuary before – made sure it was loaded and the safety clicked off. As an afterthought, I took out my mobile and, with fumbling fingers, dialed Lestrade.

“John? It’s late. Is this about the meat pile at Bart’s?”

“Send someone over, Greg. Molly – she’s –“ The word sat in my throat, raw and uninvited and unwanted.

“She what, John?” His tone was alert now. Good.

“She – whatever attacked Tobias Carlyle, it was in the morgue.” I couldn’t tell him. Some twisted sense of loyalty wouldn’t allow me. If Sherlock had to be dealt with, I would do it myself.

“God,” he breathed. “Okay. Are you and Sherlock -?”

“We’re tailing him.”

“Tell me where. I’ll send Donovan for backup, we’ll take this bastard down –“

“We’ve got it.” I hung up before Lestrade could protest or ask questions. Before he could piece together that something wasn’t kosher about the call.

It was at that moment that I heard footfalls on the stairs, not rushed, but moving at a steady pace up to the door. Of course he wouldn’t rush; I had been counting on him knowing I would go back to the flat. I raised the gun, feet planted, hands steady. I swallowed once, to push the dread down into the pit of my stomach. I expected the door to open with a crash, but it creaked open painfully slow, revealing my familiar mop-haired flatmate on the other side. He’d taken the courtesy to clean the blood off of himself, likely to avoid drawing attention to himself. Not that he had problems being covered in it in public before, but, I thought dryly, having it all over his face might cause some concern. His eyes settled on the Browning and his head tipped to the side, almost comically.

“Are you going to kill me, then?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You – Molly _adored_ you. And I suppose Tobias was your work as well.”

“Brilliant deduction,” he scathed.

“ _Why her_ , Sherlock?” My voice rang out as loud as a thunderclap in the deafening quiet of the room.

His face fell and he appeared honestly torn, a pity showing in his eyes that couldn’t even be marred by their supernatural hue. He cast them away from me, looking beyond me for a moment before settling back to me. I had to force myself to not blink as those eerie eyes stared directly into mine.

“I … I regret it. Honestly.”

“I’ve never known you to regret anything. I hardly think you’d start now.”

“I can’t _control it_!” he suddenly bellowed, causing me to jump. “Do you know what it’s like to need something so badly? It’s – “ He paused, taking time to think of how to word it so I would understand. God, I wanted to understand. He was a monster, but he was still Sherlock.

“It’s like the cocaine,” he finally said. “But a thousand times more powerful. Imagine going for days, weeks, without food, and then someone dangles the most exquisite cut of meat in front of you. Could you refuse it? I have an appetite that simply will not be sated.”

“You’re sick. That’s it, you’re – you’re ill, Sherlock. We’ll get you to a clinic, they can help you.” It had to be some sort of virus or psychosis or _something_. People didn’t just gain a taste for human meat overnight.

A laugh rumbled deep within him, dark and unforgiving. “There’s no cure for what I am, John. And I rather think if there was, I wouldn’t want it.” Another shift in his features and he was watching me with an intent glare, predatory. “I can hear your heartbeat, the sound of it pumping your blood through every vein in your body. You sound amazing.” He moved slowly toward me and I motioned with the Browning as a warning.

“I _will_ shoot you.”

“Yes, but would it do you any good?”

He was quicker than I had realized, moving in an agile sweep to duck below my line of fire, and was on me in an instant, gripping my wrist with a surprisingly strong hand and twisting, sending shots of electricity up my arm, causing me to drop the only weapon at my disposal. I grunted and lifted my leg in an attempt to kick him from me. Either I was to slow, or he too fast, because he took a step to the side to avoid contact with my knee, then swept a foot beneath me, sending me tumbling into the desk behind. There was a resonating crack as my head collided with the corner, and I saw Sherlock stiffen in response. I reached my good hand up to gingerly touch the back of my head. When I pulled my fingers away and brought them to my face, they were glistening red.

_Shit._ My gaze immediately shot up to the beast towering over me, completely at an advantage, and with a crazed hunger already visible in those piercing eyes.

“Fight,” I found myself saying. “Fight it, Sherlock. You can. I know you can. You’re practically a master at self-control.” The words came out in a rush; I was beyond trying to hide my fear at this point. He had my scent. If a torn open corpse had sent him on poor Molly, how quickly would fresh prey turn him into a ravaging animal?

He crouched down in front of me, his eyes never leaving my face. Slowly, as though he might be afraid of startling me, he reached one long white hand up to my face, gently running the tips of his fingers down from my temple to the base of my jaw. I shivered involuntarily. He leaned forward and place his face next to mine, his raspy breath blowing past my ear, and he inhaled sharply.

_Shit._

He stayed like that for a moment, like someone admiring the smell of a fresh bouquet of flowers, just taking in the aroma. Then he reached down to where my bloodied hand lay and lifted it carefully, his eyes fixated in a way that was typically reserved for an interesting puzzle piece under his microscope. My breath caught as he brought it to his mouth and, in a way that really was inappropriate, darted his tongue out to sample the sticky substance on the pads of my fingers. The low hum of satisfaction that came afterward was equally indecent.

I jerked my hand back, or tried to, but Sherlock tightened his grip, cutting his eyes up to me, giving me a warning glare. 

Then two fingers slipped into his mouth, and without thought, a desperate groan wretched itself from my throat while I flinched and turned my head. He took his time in cleaning the blood off before releasing the digits with a soft _pop_.

“Didn’t foresee you having a violence fetish,” he remarked, his tone pure amusement.

“I don’t,” I grunted.

His right hand moved to the back of my head, grasped and yanked. I yelped, more in surprise than pain, though the movement sent a pulsating throb to the back of my head. Sherlock examined the exposed flesh below my jaw, leaning in to trace it with that horrid tongue, and then his mouth was full on mine; I tasted nothing but copper. I tensed, trying to get space between us, but it only served to light his anger; he growled, a low, fierce noise from his depths, tightened his grip on my hair, and claimed my mouth.

Somewhere in the back of my head, logic was screaming at me, and I realized this wasn’t a turn on for him: it was an appetizer.

“Your mum never teach you not to play with your food?” I chided when he finally removed himself from me.

“On the contrary, she told me to savor it slowly, which I am completely intent on doing.” A wicked smirk tugged at his mouth, and I caught a glimpse of something I hadn’t seen as of yet, a set of needle-sharp teeth. No wonder he had been able to tear through Tobias Carlyle so easily.

Still flush against me and keeping my head still, he traced his free hand up along my side, grazing softly with his fingertips, until his hand came to rest on my chest, directly above my heart. He closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure.

“Guess I should have listened to Sally…”

Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed them on mine. “No.” There was a crack in his voice. “I wouldn’t trade anything for the days I got to spend with you.”

I let out a heavy sigh, resigned. “I don’t believe I would, either. God help me.”

“Do you know,” he said suddenly, his voice shifting again, taking on an almost seductive timbre, “in some cultures, cannibalism is seen as a way of honoring your loved ones? Particularly…” He traced a line down my chest and back up again, then laid his palm flat. “The heart?”

Mine felt as though it were about to leap out of my chest cavity at any given moment.

“It fits, don’t you think?” he continued, his voice sounding like a purr in my ear as he leaned in close again. “They always told me I didn’t have one. But they weren’t quite right in the assumption.”

“Sherlock, don’t –“

There was a heavy pressure, and then a sickening crack that sounded as though it were being muffled under water, and I found it abruptly difficult to breathe. I wanted not to look but couldn’t help myself, and looked down to see a bright flowering of vermillion spilling onto my shirt, with Sherlock’s hand firmly buried in my chest; the sound I had heard had been him breaking through the breastbone. Like it was a flimsy piece of paper. I gasped in a lungful of air as I felt his fingers constrict around – something – God, my heart? – and my entire body at once became frigid. I tried not to think of the sodden-sounding squelching sound that was coming from my body, or the heat spreading outward from the wound – or what should have been heat, but I was so bloody cold…

My lids drooped, and I caught the sight of Sherlock’s mouth pressed against blood-soaked flesh and fabric. His eyes lifted to meet mine, and in that moment, a look of distress came over him. I had seen it before.

_”In your last seconds, if you were dying, what would you say?”_

_“Please, God, let me live.”_

_“Use your imagination!”_

_“I don’t have to.”_

These were my last moments. Help wouldn’t arrive, I’d been too much of a cocky bastard to ask for it. What would be my final legacy to leave here? It sounded like static to me, and I only hoped that Sherlock would be able to hear it. 

“Sherl-“ I felt my body convulse, not quite sure if it wanted to go into shock or just give up here and now.

I gave him what I thought he might want to hear. Something that he would remember, when the bloodlust had faded and he had some sense of logical thinking again. Even now, I only wanted to give him a sense of closure, and I put forth every effort to squeeze those last words from my lips.

My body gave one final involuntary shudder, and as the blackness began to creep into my vision, I watched Sherlock’s mouth fall open in silent disgust, before everything fell away into a clammy black. Swimming its way through the murky vacuum was one small sound that barreled into me like rolling thunder: 

A choked sob mingled with my name.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I should profusely apologize to Molly fans after this. I'll make it up to you, I swear. (I love her so much and that scene was not an easy one to write.) I have absolutely no experience in writing horror and gore so I realize it's lackluster, but it was interesting new territory, and something I may play with and practice in the future. For those curious, the inspiration for Sherlock's transformation was Supernatural's take on the rougarou, which depicts them less as werewolves and more along the lines of monstrous superhuman cannibals.


End file.
